


in the event of (i'm sorry)

by ilgaksu



Series: not just good business [3]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Agender Kuroo, Akaashi has the Worst Job Interview Ever, Alternate Universe - 1920s, Alternate Universe - Gangsters, Bokuto Learn To Dress Yourself, Don't Wear Velvet In A Heatwave, Gay Owls, Grey-aromantic Akaashi, Leaving Bodies On The Floor Is Rude, M/M, More Suffering, Multi, Nobody's Over The War, Non-Binary Suga, Nurse Bokuto, Other, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Post-World War I, Self-Mythologising, Somebody Please Help Oikawa Tooru, Trans Bokuto, Trans Character, Unrequited Bokukuro, What a Meet Cute, World War I, agender akaashi, non-binary kenma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-27
Updated: 2015-08-27
Packaged: 2018-04-17 12:11:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,453
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4666068
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ilgaksu/pseuds/ilgaksu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Akaashi was wearing beige and cream on a flocked sweater vest. Koutarou had always thought the colours one step short of death, tugged into them in lace and ribbon, frills enclosing around his ribcage like a coffin; on Akaashi they look like morning. The electric light highlighted  the copper-gilt strands in Akaashi’s hair, turned their eyes glass-like. There was a body at their feet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	in the event of (i'm sorry)

**Author's Note:**

> tw for emetophobia: non-graphic description of vomiting  
> to avoid, skip from "the door slams shut behind them" to "they're at a party".

When Kuroo walks into Akaashi's office the Monday after, Koutarou is leaning against the windowsill, ankles crossed, watching Akaashi ignore Koutarou watching them. Kuroo looks tired, the boneache of it running scarlet maw deep. Koutarou's hands itch for a blanket, remembering the rough wool of military standard spun under his hands, remembering pulling it up under men's chins and later, over men's faces. The air is about as stale as a funeral parlour's in a heatwave, and something about this whole thing stinks just the same, so when Kuroo says he's here for Akaashi Koutarou waits outside the closed door. It's not eavesdropping, it's just him smoking and waiting to catch up with an old friend. If the catch of Kuroo's voice always tends to carry, that's just how it goes, right?

Silence, and then:

"I don't see why you're giving me this," Akaashi says evenly. There's a rustle of paper. Koutarou cranes his neck as though that'll help him hear better. There's a pause. Bokuto can imagine Kuroo shrugging.  

"Well, I figured, you're the closest thing to a lawyer I've got, so..."

"I'm not a lawyer," Akaashi says, still as cool as afternoon shade.

"But you're still gonna go in for client confidentiality, aren't you?" Kuroo presses. Akaashi sighs. Another shiver of the papers.

"Kenma will know you're here and will know exactly why."

“But,” Kuroo says, and Koutarou feels a sudden starburst of dense fucking sympathy. Kuroo sounds like someone grasping at straws; Bokuto knows how it changes your voice, makes hesitance in what is already impermanent and lodges in your throat like a piece of apple to choke on. “But if I tell you you can’t tell them, you can’t, can you?”

A long pause. Koutarou shifts from foot to foot, light on them so not to be heard, _don’t clomp up the stairs like that, sweetie, that’s not how we do it here in Georgia._

“Not if you’re paying me,” Akaashi finally replies. “But they’re going to find out anyway, if you’re also paying for my professional opinion.”

Now Kuroo sighs.

“Yes, but they’ll pretend they don’t know and I’m okay with that being how this goes down.”

He sounds almost fond. Koutarou knows what this is, knows it’s Kuroo’s fucking last Will and Testament that’s going down in there. He wants to break down the door and throw something to hear it shatter because Koutarou has spent years telling Kuroo he’s not gonna die like this, whatever that this has been, and Kuroo’s spent years going but just in case. Koutarou drinks champagne like it’s water and Kuroo invests in stocks and watches them grow slow, both of them trying to forget how this mortal coil shivers under its own frailty; and Koutarou wonders who did this to them, wonders _did we do this to ourselves?_

“These are all the aliases?” Akaashi asks, their voice toneless to anyone but Koutarou. Koutarou hears the tremble underneath that denotes pity. Koutarou always hears the tremble, like static on the radio.

“Every account,” Kuroo confirms. “I want them all rewired back to this account in their name in the event of -”

“Yes,” Akaashi says quickly, “In the event of.”

 

Five years ago, Kenma and Koutarou had been left alone together in a hotel suite whilst Kuroo went to ring up the concierge for more ice. Koutarou was sprawled on the bed, necking the bottle faster than an adolescent makeout on the boardwalk in July, and when he’d looked up, Kenma was watching him, their buttonhole ripped out of place and being shredded in their lap. The wisteria was bruised, the pulp of it clinging to Kenma’s fingers, and Kenma had been looking at Koutarou and they’d said: I’m sorry.

Koutarou knew what this was about, knew how he must look at Kuroo even if he didn’t want to know. Even when he’d been half-naked, blood and dirt peeling off his skin and delirious-eyed, Kuroo had been hard for Koutarou to look away from. There had been a desperation in his eyes, a hunger to wring the world dry, that resonated in Koutarou so hard it chimed. And if he knew, then Kenma knew, because Kenma was half-and-then-some responsible for Body’s Blood. Koutarou had seen the maths once. It had looked pretty ugly. _Sweetie, don’t bother your head with that. Come say hello to the officers, and wear your new lace gloves._

 

“I’m sorry,” Kenma said, and Koutarou thought about pretending not to hear, about letting the moment slip past them unremarked. Kenma would let him do that; Kenma knew they’d already been heard. It would have been easy. Koutarou didn’t do easy.

 

“Don’t be,” Koutarou had replied instead, staring at the cream-cool of the ceiling. “No one to blame. I was just late to the party, that’s all.”

 

Five years ago, Kenma looked at Koutarou and apologised for getting in the way, apologised for making a better door than a window, as though Kuroo had ever even noticed. Kuroo doesn’t notice, Koutarou thinks bitterly, stubbing out the cigarette against his glove and watching the smoke clog up the corridor outside Akaashi’s office. Inside, he hears Akaashi walk Kuroo through the details in a clear cold-water voice, hears Kuroo sign his name on the dotted line. In the event of his death, all fourteen of Kuroo’s accounts are emptied and deposited in an account under the name of Kozume Kenma.

 

Kuroo doesn’t notice when he’s doing something stupid, the dim lovesick bastard. He never fucking does.

 

Fucking martyr should’ve been born a Catholic.

 

*

 

When Kuroo opens the door, Koutarou has a brief blurt of panic, wonders whether to hide, but the corridor is too narrow and there’s nowhere to go and Kuroo’s here now already anyway. They look at each other for a long moment, before Kuroo shrugs, huffs through his nose as though to say huh, whatever.

“Well, hello to you as well,” Koutarou says.

“Don’t look at me like that, Bokuto,” Kuroo says. “Everybody’s gonna be putting things in place this week, you know.”

“Are you telling me to get my affairs in order?” Koutarou tries to joke, but the look on Kuroo’s face says that’s exactly what he’s doing and Koutarou lets his mouth drop open. Holy shit. Kuroo’s frightened, more frightened than even Koutarou figured and he’d been the one after last Friday’s shitshow to go sit on the window seat with Kuroo and coax him back. Somehow, it lances through Koutarou, that fear, taints the air so it goes metallic with the next swallow. Koutarou hasn’t seen fear like that on Kuroo since he walked past a hospital bed on the night shift and a nineteen-year-old Kuroo realised someone had caught him crying.  

“I was just thinking,” Kuroo says carefully, “You might wanna clear shit up for if Akaashi has to keep house.”

“Why would Akaashi have to do anything?” Koutarou replies. It comes out sharper than he intended, but he doesn’t know how to take it back. It’s not that Akaashi isn’t important. It’s not that. It’s just-

 

Some things are too big to talk about. _I’m sorry,_ we say, in a hotel suite with wisteria in our lap. _I’m sorry,_ we say, scrubbing at our eyes with the corner of the hospital sheets. _I’m sorry,_ we say, looking out of the window of our office, _but I just don’t know how to reciprocate yet. Give me some more time, please._

 

“Come on, Koutarou,” Kuroo finally says after a pause, voice soft and knowing, and Koutarou _hates_ it. What does Kuroo know? Kuroo doesn’t know how Koutarou feels. He never used to. Why should he have figured out how to? Why should he have changed, just because Koutarou’s feelings have? He drums his fingers against his thigh. The air feels muggy, somehow. “It’s a lovely morning.”

 

“Yeah,” Koutarou says, grateful for the distraction, grabbing the olive branch for dear life, “Yeah, let’s blow this joint.”

 

“Sure,” Kuroo says. “Don’t forget your jacket. I can’t believe you’re wearing red velvet in summer.”

“It suits me,” Koutarou says, swooping back into the office. Akaashi and him don’t really look at each other; Koutarou knows Akaashi overheard the whole exchange, but they have an understanding. Privacy has always been a fictional construct for Koutarou, anyway; his heart always made out of thin paper walls. “Akaashi, doesn’t this jacket suit me?”

 

“That doesn’t make it less unsuitable,” Kuroo points out, “in the middle of a heatwave. You’re gonna faint. Don’t expect me to pick you up.”

 

“That’s fine,” Koutarou says brightly, “I’ll just have them call Akaashi. Right, Akaashi?”

 

Akaashi, true to form, just sighs.

 

*

 

So let’s talk about how this started. Where do you want to begin? With a Koutarou who cut his old name from his shoulders like so much dead weight, sloughed it off like sugarcane or a snake and left the withered skin of it lying out in the hot grass to burn? With a Koutarou who watched the boys at tea dances and ached? It’s called a deadname for a reason, and Koutarou has razed his own origins to the ground, lynched himself alive and it’s how the born-again lot must have felt all along, Koutarou thinks.  

 

Shall we start with a Koutarou who was on shift in the military hospital, quiet misery the greatest freedom he’d ever yet known, when they brought in two Chicago soldiers from a landslide alive? _It’s a miracle,_ someone said. _Yeah, yeah. Call the fuckin’ Vatican,_ said another. There was the gleam of scissors, the cold lip of them against the sodden fabric as they cut them out of the fabric and got the morphine, cleaned them up for a clear shot at the vein. How one of them was muttering under his breath, semi-conscious, a litany of _Kenma, I can’t, my name is, I gotta, Kenma, Kenma, Kenma._ How the other was deadly silent and pale, and Koutarou couldn’t decide which he liked less? _Get more bandages, Bokuto. Yes, matron._

 

(Later, Kuroo will laugh, propped up in bed, a little too loud. _Getting undressed by four fuckin’ nurses and I missed the show?_ Koutarou will see the flicker of self-consciousness before Daichi clears his throat to try and call Kuroo back into line.)  

 

Or should we start with a Koutarou who took the train from Georgia to Chicago, because he’d always suspected his best patient had the mob in his blood, and as Kuroo had gone to leave he’d slipped an address and whispered _I always repay my debts_ low into Koutarou’s ear? Shall we start with a Koutarou brave enough and mad enough to walk into Nekoma alone and expect to get out alive on sheer guts and namedropping? _Tell Kuroo Tetsurou that Bokuto Koutarou is here to see him._ They say Bokuto Koutarou has the Midas touch, but Koutarou just thinks it’s about fake it till you make it, rewriting your very organs until they beat only to affirm your belonging.

 

Koutarou’s always been good at that part. Legends start when you pick yourself out of the dust in Georgia and pack your suitcase, catch a train on a promise and breathe in deep. _Fake it till you make it._

 

Yeah. That has a nice ring to it. Let’s start with that.

 

*

 

Akaashi huffs, low under their breath, a growl clinging to the shadowy underbelly of their voice. Their voice is cream usually, clean and smooth, and frustration looks good on them, and Koutarou doesn’t know where he’s supposed to go with that thought only that he is supposed to go with it. Koutarou puts down the copy of _Alice in Wonderland_ he’s rereading for the fifth time, sprawled across the bed, and just watches Akaashi. He does that a lot. He knows he does, and knows that Akaashi knows, and it makes something anxious curl up and sit low and heavy in his stomach.

 

The dress is teal silk. It’s the brightest thing Akaashi owns, and it dips around their lower back like the sprawl of a mermaid’s tail and gapes open across the shoulder blades where Akaashi is trying, and failing, to fasten the hooks and eyes to hold the whole thing in place. Koutarou keeps watching. He even puts down his book, as Akaashi twists their arms behind them and the material skids out of their grasp for the fifth time running.

 

“This is ridiculous,” Akaashi says.

 

Koutarou stands up. It’s three strides to Akaashi’s side; Koutarou makes it in two. Koutarou senses Akaashi look up, trying to meet Koutarou’s eyes in the mirror’s reflection, but Koutarou focuses instead on the back of the dress. He thinks of the whirl of lace debutante skirts and muscle memory does the rest of the work, fastening up the dress with ease. He lingers a moment - can’t help it - thumbs at the neckline of the dress, back and forth over the nub of Akaashi’s spine. Akaashi takes in a breath and Koutarou’s eyes snap up on instinct; Akaashi takes in a breath and muscle memory does the rest of the work and they look at each other in the reflection of the mirror in a sudden crackling silence.

 

They look, Koutarou thinks faintly, like they fit together, somehow.

 

“You’re never ridiculous,” he says finally, hushed, and can tell Akaashi hears it: hears the reverence there. Koutarou has never felt a God on Sundays, has never seen one in the pages of holy books thin as onion skin, but when he looks at Akaashi he thinks he may understand how to worship all the same.

 

His voice aloud breaks it. Akaashi blinks out of the haze, fawn-startled. Koutarou’s hand is still on Akaashi’s back. He pulls away. They don’t look at each other.

 

“Come on then,” Akaashi says, “We’re going to be late.”

 

*

 

The first time Koutarou meets Akaashi, it’s at Oikawa’s, in the room with that marble table, the one that looks like it could crush a man beneath its weight. Sometimes, looking at Oikawa and the mad glint in his eyes, Koutarou wonders if it already has.

 

Akaashi was wearing beige and cream on a flocked sweater vest. Koutarou had always thought the colours one step short of death, tugged into them in lace and ribbon, frills enclosing around his ribcage like a coffin; on Akaashi they look like morning. The electric light highlighted  the copper-gilt strands in Akaashi’s hair, turned their eyes glass-like. There was a body at their feet.

  


Koutarou didn’t even notice at first. Partially, he tells himself later, it was because Akaashi was also trying very hard not to notice. The blood nudged at their shoes and still they didn’t look down. They weren’t cheap shoes - Koutarou had made a study of Macy’s the last time Kuroo and he sat down with the Russians in New York, and they were Italian made. Koutarou wondered idly if Oikawa approved.

 

“Fresh meat,” Kuroo muttered, slipping past him to take a seat at the table; Koutarou’s answering laugh jerked him into action. Oikawa was watching, after all. Akaashi’s eyes snapped to his with that laugh but they said nothing. Oikawa had waited for them all to sit, tapping his foot; Koutarou had moved even slower out of spite, and Akaashi did not sit. Akaashi stood, blank-faced as a stone angel by Oikawa’s side. Oikawa clapped his hands and Iwaizumi closed the door, shifting into place at Oikawa’s right hand with the kind of seamless, economical movement that suggested Iwaizumi thought of excess movement as waste. Koutarou had the idea they might not get along. Nobody had mentioned the body yet, and Koutarou was getting bored of the elephant, so he lounged back obnoxiously, and said, “Who’s John Doe?”

 

From across the table, Daichi flinched minutely as though Koutarou didn’t know what he was doing. Kuroo gave Koutarou a look that said he knew that Koutarou knew exactly what he was doing.

 

“The last accountant,” Oikawa said, voice clipped, blinking in staccato, “It turns out they were holding back from the house, and our new friend here happened to bring it to my attention.”

 

“Never met the guy,” Koutarou said, “I’ll take your word for it.”

 

Oikawa’s eyes flashed, and he gestured to Akaashi, who didn’t react to the acknowledgement at all. “Go on,” Oikawa said, half-smiling, “Introduce yourself,” and Akaashi did. They’d clearly already learnt how Oikawa gave orders. They might make it two weeks at this rate, with that face.

 

“Akaashi Keiji,” they say coolly, slipping their hands into the pockets of their slacks. “I noticed some irregularities in the accounts. They will not continue now I have undertaken the job.” Their hands don’t even shake in their pockets. There’s a dead man with half his jaw gone at their feet and they don’t even nudge the teeth away or step out of the blood. A month, Koutarou amends.

 

“Akaashi used to be at Yale Law,” Oikawa lets them know, like he’s showing off a new pet bird that was very expensive and can mimic the opera. “I imagine they will be useful in that regard.”

 

“I’m afraid,” Akaashi said, “I can offer advice but I will be unable to represent.” They even sound appropriately regretful. A month and a half. No matter. Everyone sings for the Great King eventually. Everyone falls in with Oikawa Tooru’s tune.

 

“And now,” Oikawa says, proving his point absolutely, “I have an important phone call to make. Please wait until I’ve finished. Get acquainted with Akaashi.” His smile is sugared malice. He knows Daichi doesn’t like being held here most, but that the others are no different.

 

The door snicks shut behind Iwaizumi, and Koutarou is distracted from his contemplation of Akaashi Keiji’s prospective lifespan by Akaashi Keiji breaking rank with greyhound speed. All the warning there is is in a single tremor in their left hand, where it’s curled in one pocket. And then they move so fast Koutarou barely registers it, bolting past him to the sideroom door behind; Koutarou registers the displaced air more than anything else.

 

The door slams shut behind them. The noise of vomiting begins slowly afterwards. Koutarou’s impressed they held it together for so long; law students that look like the babyfaced edition of a Mucha advertisement have no place in a pieta with their dead predecessor.

 

For a long time, or rather, what feels like a long time, they all sit there in silence, listening to Akaashi retch. Suga is impeccably smooth of face, but their eyes are huge and anxious as they look at the door, clearly itching to go comfort. Daichi is staring at the table, jaw clenched. Kenma is looking pointedly at Kuroo, who is looking pointedly at Koutarou. Koutarou sighs. Stands up.

 

“Jesus,” he says loudly, “It’s like y’all forget your first body already. Sugawara, grab us some water, will you? Kuroo, keep your eye on the corridor. Kenma, do us all a favour and go powder your nose.” That way, anyone guarding them will watch Kuroo. Kenma can get a read on what Oikawa’s phone conversation is about without anyone suspecting, which is what they all actually need out of this opportunity. Koutarou believes in taking opportunities. Kenma gets this without saying and nods.

 

Sometimes, Koutarou used to be bitter, wondering what was so great about Kozume Kenma that his best patient carried a photo of them in a dented locket close to their heart, eyes animated as he talked about how the light from the movie screen hit Kenma’s face at the picturehouse. Nowadays, Koutarou knows better.  

 

Kenma holds out their hand; Kuroo rolls his eyes and fishes a compact out of his jacket pocket, and Kenma leaves in a soft swish of copper beading and rose oil. Suga is already ransacking the drinks cabinet looking for soda water, so Koutarou goes to the sidedoor and knocks. There’s a pause in the noise; Koutarou imagines Akaashi wiping their mouth and tensing.

 

“Hey,” he says, “It’s just me,” as though they know each other. It’s ridiculous. They don’t. And yet - “Can I come in?”

 

*

 

They’re at a party, and it feels like a wake. Oikawa’s organised the whole thing, obviously: it’s a _fuck you_ to Ushijima and his boys, so soon after they found the white rose in the settling brick dust. It’s a _you didn’t break us._ Nobody’s called Oikawa out on the unspoken _not yet, anyway_ , but the weight of the oncoming war forces all their heads down. Akaashi had tied Koutarou’s bow tie with their breath close and hot and their face set, and it had felt like being strapped into armour; invincible and shaking all at once. Suga’s suit is silver and Daichi’s is navy and they look like inversions of each other; Kenma has their fingers hooked around Kuroo’s wrist like an anchor; Koutarou snatches up a glass of champagne in each hand and tells himself to stop being so bitter.

 

“Go easy tonight,” Akaashi says guardedly, surveying the dancing crowd with the air of a sniper picking out killshots. Last time they were at a party of Oikawa’s, Koutarou had kissed Akaashi in one of the empty cloakrooms, felt the give and push of it as Akaashi kissed back, sharp and hard and good. They’d stayed like that for ten minutes before Akaashi had wrenched themselves away, had retreated behind their eyes again, but they’d watched Koutarou the rest of the night, half-unaware of even doing so, licking over the bruise on their lower lip. Koutarou gets the feeling romance doesn’t come easy to Akaashi; wonders if it’s ever happened at all. That’s fine. Koutarou can see the benefits of a long courtship. Akaashi is of significance. Akaashi is valuable. And Koutarou, in contradiction to most of the rumours, isn’t averse to putting the time in when it matters.

 

Akaashi Keiji is an investment.

 

“I got you a present,” Koutarou says in reply. It’s been burning a hole in his pocket all night, cold to the touch like a dark star, and Koutarou’s been relishing the anticipation. Akaashi, predictably, rolls their eyes.

 

“I hope it’s not more lilies,” they reply. Once a fortnight, a local specialist florist delivers two dozen calla lilies to Akaashi’s office. Akaashi once told Koutarou that calla lilies were their favourite. These two facts, according to Koutarou, have no correlation.

 

“The lilies are anonymous,” Koutarou replies, and smirks when Akaashi rolls their eyes again. If Akaashi really wanted the lilies to stop, they’d be gone. As it is, they are always on their desk, in the best light. They both know this. They both know a lot of things.

 

“You should cover your eyes,” Koutarou says, and Akaashi sighs but closes them obediently, palm outstretched. They flinch a little when the metal cools their skin, and when they open them their eyes widen for a single splinter of a second. It’s gratifying.

 

Koutarou watches Akaashi turn the cigarette case over in their hands, gold against the clear of their nails, brush their thumb across the indent of their name in the engraving. It winks in the chandelier light.  

 

“You’re not subtle, are you?” Akaashi finally mutters, low, raw almost.

 

“Not about you,” Koutarou replies. “But I think you like that.” Akaashi nods, lips pursed, before glancing at Koutarou from the corners of their eyes.

 

“I find it preferable,” is all they say, and Koutarou outright grins, the rush of it flooding his veins and making him dizzy.

 

“I’m not going to kiss you again,” Akaashi says now, but they watch Koutarou swallow the champagne all the same and they both know. Koutarou grins. Even the leaden feel to this whole evening can’t drag him down right now.

 

“Never said you were, darling,” he says. “Never said you were.”

 

“Most men,” Akaashi says softly, “expect some form of gratification as repayment for a gift.”

 

“I don’t take anything until someone asks. I find that more gratifying.”

 

“I see,” Akaashi says, and slowly, but surely, smiles.

 

*

 

Four days later, Koutarou hears a knock on his door. He’s wading through maps of the city, papercuts on his thumb stinging, trying to figure out where the old sewer tunnels reconnect back up in Shira territory. Oikawa wants to stab them in the heart and Koutarou is good at his job. He gets up, smooths down his waistcoat, and answers the door. Kuroo’s due any minute, so it’s -

 

It’s Akaashi, stood there in a sailor collar dress and red patent shoes. The line down the back of their stockings is perfectly, identically even; Koutarou knows this without even looking. They’re wearing white gloves, which they’re peeling off now rather than looking at Koutarou.

 

“Hello,” they say, a little awkwardly, and when they glance up their eyes are huge and vulnerable. “It’s just me. I’ve been thinking some. Can I come in?”

 

In the event of Kuroo Tetsurou’s death, all fourteen of Kuroo’s accounts are emptied and deposited in an account under the name of Kozume Kenma. When they cremate, not bury, Daichi Sawamura, he will most likely be survived by a Sugawara who will take over Karasuno with all the kind-eyed mercilessness that comes to them easy as breathing. Koutarou has no such legacy. Koutarou is ashes to ashes, dust to dust made manifest. It comes with being self-made. It comes with the territory. It’s the mark of a modern man. But Koutarou, in the same vein, is always reaching for more. There is a lot more left he has to prove wrong.

 

Akaashi looks at him, hovering on his doorstep, and something in Koutarou shifts. He isn’t surprised. He expected this. He knew the inevitability the moment he saw Akaashi made beige and cream look appealing to him.

 

Akaashi looks at him, and Koutarou looks back for a long moment, sweet and honey-slow. More than just looking at Akaashi, Koutarou likes being seen in return. He wonders what Akaashi’s been thinking about. He wonders if he wants to find out.

 

Looking at Akaashi’s mouth - _the curve of your lips rewrite history_ \- he thinks he does.

 

“Knock yourself out,” Koutarou says, stepping back from the door, “I could use you, to be honest. You’re better at this than I am.”

 

“I don’t think I am,” Akaashi says quietly, not budging from the doorway. Koutarou catches their eye and holds it. They struggle to look back at first, but then they can’t seem to look away.

 

“Maybe not,” Koutarou says, and shrugs. “Does it matter? That’s half of why you keep me around, isn’t it?”

 

“What’s the other half?” Akaashi asks.

 

Koutarou holds open the door.

 

“Whatever you want, darling. It’s always whatever you want.”

 

Akaashi, predictably, wrinkles their nose. Their eyes are shining.

 

And Koutarou, predictably, lets them in.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

>  _the curves of your lips rewrite history_ is a line from Oscar Wilde's _The Picture of Dorian Gray_.
> 
> thanks to hamlet_themouse for their invaluable beta.
> 
> [come cry about these gross losers with me](ilgaksu.tumblr.com) 
> 
>  


End file.
